An hour before dusk we stood at the western ridge of Dawnroot Glen, staring at a fissure that looked nothing like the narrow tunnel Calia's miners had first reported. Three days of quiet had let the seam widen to a jagged wound: striated walls of quartz and root‑iron glimmer sloping into darkness. Warm air drifted out, scented with minerals and something sweeter like lilac, but older, as if the earth itself had tried to remember the perfume and nearly succeeded.
Seven nights until the waxen moon reached full. Seven nights to seal whatever hunger Valke had seeded. After that, the Loom's panel warned, the Untwisted Grove would wake and unguarded waking meant every dormant root‑iron pillar could reach for the sky all at once. No Veilstone, no bracelet of pylons, no dawn‑thread charter could contain that.
Ravan had chosen a team small enough to slip unseen yet sturdy enough to fight if mirrors sharpened in the dark: Vael to scout ahead on silent wings; Brina with her ash‑scythe and tunnel sense; Esmenet Khai yes, the new Consortium envoy volunteered, offering knowledge of old monastic forges and a chance to prove sincerity; and finally Calia, who carried the spool of sincere thread divided into seven skeins keyed to root‑songs she'd studied for days.
Custodian Lys could not accompany us below ground probation line ended at bedrock but they marked each of our foreheads with a dot of starlight, promising Loom guardians would see us as guests, not thieves.
I wore Caelia Glassborne at my throat, her mirror pendant masked beneath scarf. She shimmered faint like a heartbeat and cautioned in my thoughts: If reflection turns red, step away from stone. I promised.
With a nod from Ravan, we descended.
The first tunnel bent gently, carved perhaps by monks seeking heat vents. Candle‑globes of soul‑fire hovered from Vael's belt, casting jade halos. Stone glittered with microscopic mirror flecks; reflections stitched and unstitched along walls as we passed. Occasionally an echo of footsteps pattered behind us our own delayed, or someone else's? The Glen above retained full daylight, yet down here darkness pressed, thick as cloth awaiting dye.
Brina tapped scythe on ground every dozen paces, listening. "Root‑iron struts under veneer," she muttered. "We tread on dormant pillars."
"Loom panel showed spiral chamber ahead," Calia said, eyes on rune compass that pulsed turquoise whenever our route aligned with pattern.
Esmenet stayed near rear, scribbling into waterproof ledger. I had half expected her to cling to Ravan for prestige; instead she catalogued minerals, murmuring supply calculations under breath. Commerce never slept, even while abyss yawned. Oddly, her presence calmed me danger seems smaller when someone is busy composing profit margins.
The corridor widened abruptly into cathedral‑like cavern. Shafts of molten-orange light lanced from ceiling vents, illuminating a forest of root‑iron trunks: columns three stories tall, each encased in translucent sheath like ice. Veins of teal shimmer threaded cores. A hush reigned, broken only by drip of condensing steam.
I stepped closer. Inside one pillar floated frozen whorls patterns reminiscent of loom warp. Untouched they radiated peace; but at base of several trunks, spider cracks branched, and at each node pale red dust gleamed. Valke's hunger seeds.
Ravan's jaw tightened. "He meant chain reaction. Seeds melt ice, pillars awaken, forest breaches surface."
Vael reported narrower shafts connecting to deeper galleries. Glass‑dust footprints led that way recent. Valke survivors scouting?
We split: Vael and Brina canvassed perimeter, clearing seeds; Ravan, Esmenet, Calia, and I advanced into core tunnel. Calia unwound first skein, humming lullaby in Glen dialect. Dawn‑thread strands drifted upward, wrapping nearest cracked sheath; fissures shrank, dust sighed to gray powder. Relief.
Deeper.
Tunnel walls transitioned from quartz to smooth fused glass. My footsteps sounded hollow. Then Caelia's pendant flashed crimson. Reflection red. I halted, signaling others.
Ahead, chamber flooded orange glow. Silhouetted within: two mirror‑armored figures kneeling over root‑iron basin, feeding powder into central column. Between them crouched a third child‑sized, robe shredded, face hidden beneath cracked porcelain mask half‑etched with weft‑shuttle motif. Valke? No the stature wrong. Perhaps an apprentice left behind?
Ravan melted into shadow along wall. I stepped forward into light. "Stop," I called softly. "The loom above chooses mercy. Choose it, too."
One guard whirled, glass pike raised. Esmenet surprised me: she stepped beside me, holding Consortium seal medallion high. "Authority of Seven‑Fold!" she barked. "Cease illegal extraction."
The guard hesitated. The robed figure lifted head: face of young girl, maybe twelve, features gaunt, eyes reflecting root‑iron glow. Broken mask fragments clung like petals. "H help," she whispered, voice fissuring. "He left me… hungry won't stop." Powder bowl shook in her trembling hands.
Calia gasped. "They're feeding her! Root‑iron binds to neural weave."
I edged closer, palms open. "What is your name?"